


i hate you, savannah woodham

by aprhrodite



Category: Nancy Drew (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Game 28: Ghost of Thornton Hall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 05:26:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11502690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aprhrodite/pseuds/aprhrodite
Summary: Wade Thornton really doesn't know why the fuck he even bothers anymore.





	i hate you, savannah woodham

**Author's Note:**

  * For [comeherebob](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=comeherebob).



He was just getting too fucking old for this shit.

Wade Thornton downed the last of his whiskey bottle, watching it shattered into a thousand flecks of glass as it hit the concrete. He’d clean it up later, probably, after he figured out what in god’s green earth was going on outside.

He emerged from an old cottage teetering on the edge of Blackrock Island, near the shoreline. It was close enough to hear the seagulls and far enough away from that _damn_ house to feel comfortable. He was offered to stay in one of the old rooms upstairs but he’d refused. Charlotte didn’t want him there and neither did the rest of the family, there was no doubt about that.

He stepped onto the familiar dirt path that winded through the old cemetery, passing by his mother’s tombstone with a heavy sigh. He laid one hand out to graze over the rough stone before turning his shoulders square to the house. The noise from earlier was louder now and coming directly from the front door. Probably another fucking mother-daughter brawl, the kind of shit he stayed far away from. Still, he could make out Jessalyn’s voice through the crisp autumn air. It was high-pitched and squeaky and laced with their family’s thick southern drawl, the _one_ thing he tried to get rid of when he left Blackrock behind him years ago. Prison did a number on him, but even the best damn speech therapist in Georgia wouldn’t be able to shake him of that accent. It bred in his voice like a pathological virus, impossible to weed out. And it would kill him, that family of his, he was certain. Maybe not now, but someday.

He took a heavy step on the porch of the old Victorian mansion, careful not to step on Clara’s precious “rugs” that lined the cracked, white floor. They looked like cat vomit and deserved to be pissed on for all he cared—but arguing with his cousin was fruitless and he was tired and drunk.

He was _sure_ they were arguing now, Clara and Jessalyn, and although he couldn’t hear that whip of a voice from his cousin he could _certainly_ hear Jessalyn’s, loud and obnoxious, nearly pulling her own hair out in the entry way of their old mansion. He stopped right at the doorway—this was as far as he’d come—and watched the entire thing burn like embers in a fire. Any closer and he’d be in the white part of the flame, the kind that burns the most.

“I don’t give a _damn_ what you think, mother,” Jessalyn spat, throwing a fist up against the wall. The paintings wiggled in their spots but remained intact. “She is gonna figure this thing out once and for all.”

“I never gave you _permission_ to bring anyone else here, Jessalyn,” Clara said from a far. She was probably in the parlor, hands stuck around the handle of a broom, trying to clean up what was permanently messed up. “I didn’t even want you to have your stupid bachelorette party here in the first place.”

It’s not like he really cared much about the nature of their argument. The whiskey sat in the pit of his stomach, making him feel full and fuzzy. He wasn’t even sure why he came or why he was still standing there, watching Jessalyn shake, watching her face bloom red like a tomato, watching her crumble into bits and take the whole damn house with her. She could if she wanted. The whole place could burn down and he wouldn’t cry over it. Maybe Charlotte would be happy. Maybe Clara would just give it a fucking _rest_ , already. Hadn’t they been through enough?

And then that girl, that damn sour apple of a woman came blundering downstairs two steps at a time, nearly smacking into Jessalyn’s back. “Jess,” she pleaded, shaking her friend’s elbow. “Jess, come on. Don’t let this ruin your night.”

But Jessalyn was a damn Thornton. Wade could almost see the hot, feverish blood beneath the girl’s veins, the way it made her eyes electric and her voice strong. “No,” she barked. “I don’t care what you say. She’s comin’, and that’s that.”

It could have been because he was obnoxiously drunk, but Wade was a little unsure why no one had commented on his presence. He wasn’t remarkable looking with his bushy eyebrows and bloodshot eyes, but normally him being around the mansion made everyone—especially Clara—jump out of their skin, as if he was the ghost of Thornton Hall and Charlotte was just visiting for the weekend.

But no, she was there. Wade could feel it in the air, the way the leaves shifted without a breeze, the way doors open and closed and the way fire sparked without a match. Charlotte was there, all right, in the walls and the pipes and the vents, watching, searching, planning. And he’d be damned if he got caught in the middle of all that pent-up rage when he didn’t do anything to deserve it.

He staggered in the doorway, blinking as his vision goes spotty.

Clara’s slithering voice came back to him, cutting through the doorway like a lunging snake. “I _mean it_ , Jessalyn. Don’t do it.”

“Too late,” Jessalyn said. “She’s almost here. Just got off the phone with her.”

“ _What_?”

Wade rolled his eyes. Another prissy little city girl wandering around the grounds, searching for “clues” or whatever the hell they were out there doing, would only make things worse. They weren’t Thorntons, they didn’t get it. And as much as Wade wished he could rip his last name off like a band-aid, he couldn’t. It was stuck to him, permanent adhesive, no solvent. He was fucked.

“Yer bringin’ someone else out here?” He slurred, rubbing his worn face. Jessalyn paid him no attention, instead swinging her hips around to join hands with her friend before scurrying back up the stairs to their little private party. “Okay, that’s fine. Just ignore ol’ Uncle Wade.”

Clara was suddenly in the doorway of the parlor, arms crossed. She looked like one of those porcelain dolls with half her face caved in on the side, cracked, bleeding. She looked tired, but Wade didn’t care. “You’re letting in a draft,” she said, tightening the muscles in her cheek. “Close the door.”

“As you wish, dear cousin,” he growled, turning on his heel. He lost his balance temporarily, dizzy from the burn of the whiskey in the back of his throat, and stabled himself with the trim. Clara snorted behind him like a horse, low and guttural and leaking with disapproval. But Wade knew only one place Clara could shove her discomforting opinion, though he was sure he’d get slapped for mentioning it. “Door is closed.”

He swung the giant door shut, letting the shake of the house guide him back down the steps and toward the cemetery again. The black metal gates looked like fingers in the bleak moonlight and the tombstones seemed to come alive right before his eyes, dancing, twisting, changing positions. This had to be the alcohol. Had to be.

Then he found himself on the ground, squirming around in the dirt. He sat upright, running a hand through his dark hair. He was inappropriately, unexplainably drunk, to say the least. Standing up proved to be difficult.

He made his way back through the cemetery, halfway through the brush separating his little cottage and Thornton hall, when the gates reopened with a deafening creak. He whipped around, studying the shadows, hiding behind a tombstone for some old bastard he was probably related to but didn’t care to know.

For a moment, he wondered if he was hallucinating, or if someone climbed into his cottage last night and spiked his bottle before he drank it, because this could absolutely, positively _not_ be happening.

Savannah walked briskly towards the front doors, keeping her sweater wrapped around her tight. It was cold, sure, but Wade knew the chill was from something else—Charlotte—and the only person who could ever possibly admit that to him was almost three feet in front of him, unaware, with long legs and curves like a hillside and big, stubborn eyes. It was only coincidence that she was the same person who made him grow out his stuffy beard and start drinking, the reason he didn’t smile anymore, the reason he imagined being roadkill on the side of the road. And she was right there.

It was probably the alcohol, it was probably the welcoming breeze, it was probably because he was lonely and sad and tired of the bullshit. He walked up behind her and cleared his throat.

She jumped nearly a foot in the air, arms outstretched, panicked. “Jesus Christ,” she breathed upon seeing him. “Don’t… don’t do that shit again.”

“Apologies,” he said, feeling lightheaded. He blamed it on the whiskey, but it was most definitely Savannah, standing in front of him with her waterfall curls and long eyelashes and pissed off facial expression. God, she was right there.

“Are you—are you _drunk_?” She said, cocking her head to the side. “Oh, oh my god, Wade. You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

He liked when she got mad. That’s probably why their relationship didn’t pan out as well as he’d liked two—or was it three?—years ago. Her face got all wrinkled like wet clothes and she’d push out her bottom lip and frown and _damn_ , she looked so beautiful.

“I may or may not have drank something tonight,” He snapped. “But I’m a damn legal adult and I’ll do what I please.”

She scoffed. “Yeah, okay. I’ll leave you to it, then.”

And there she was, Savannah Woodham, with her tiny ears and bony fingers and pointed nose, _walking away from him_. He jogged up beside her, pulling a hand out of his jacket to rub the back of his neck, slick with perspiration. “I’m sorry, wait! Please.”

She slowed to a stop, glancing passed him and over his shoulder, trying to read every shadow like an open book. Wade had done that for years, studying the grounds like an open diary, hoping it would tell him everything that he needed to know. But then Savannah left and he just plain gave up trying. No use in being disappointed twice.

“Why’re you here?” He asked.

“Jessalyn called,” She said, and her voice sounded like vinyl records on a rainy day, like family, like home. “She… she wants to know about what happened to Charlotte.”

“Charlotte?” Wade asked, fumbling with his feet. Damn, he wished he wasn’t this drunk. “Why does she care about that? Happened over twenty years ago.”

Savannah broke her composure for a moment long enough for a smile to slip through. It was small and quick, but Wade noticed. “That’s what you asked me in the bookstore, too, you fucking grouch,” She fussed with her hair, mahogany, just like he’d remembered. “‘Why do you care so much about my damn family?’” She imitated him flawlessly, even down to the set of wrinkles on his forehead.

“I guess, er, I guess I just don’t see what the damn fuss is about.”

There it is again, that little smile, gone in a second. “Then why were _you_ at that bookstore, Wade? Tell me again?”

“I was—” He could feel his blood beginning to boil, the way it always did when someone asked about his family, about that day, about that _damn_ bookstore and that _damn_ girl with honey-golden eyes. _Fuck you_ , he’d say to anyone that asked, _mind your own damn business_. But this was Savannah Woodham, determination and caramel macchiatos—soy milk, two shots of espresso, no whipped cream. He remembered it just like it was yesterday, watching her slink into one of those old broken chairs, reading an old census, the one _he_ fucking needed, the one he’d driven all the way out there to find. “I was just tryin’ to do my research, same as you.”

“Then don’t give me shit about it.”

She began to walk again, quickening her pace to escape the fog settling around by their ankles, and he followed, not sure what the hell else to say. He walked alongside her until they got up onto the porch again and she put a hand on the doorknob. Before she opened it, though, she turned back to face him.

“Let me guess, you’re not going inside?”

“Nah,” he said. “I figure you shouldn’t either.”

“She deserves to know,” Savannah said, losing her gaze to the floor. “And you do too, Wade.”

“I don’t much care, myself,” He said, leaning up against one of the pillars for support. “What happened, happened.”

Savannah set her jaw. “What happened, happened.”

And just like that, they were no longer talking about Charlotte or the mansion or his family but the long nights of fighting, arguing, Wade’s uncontrollable temper, the way she kissed him in public without asking and the way he brought her donuts to work because they were her favorite.

He fell silent. Kicked a couple of loose pebbles on the floor. Tried to pretend he didn’t hear her, the pain itching her throat, the way it made her eyes turn downward and lose their glimmer. Besides, he didn’t know what to say. _I’m sorry_ wouldn’t help her any more than cough syrup would help an upset stomach. No matter what he said, it wouldn’t be enough. He wouldn’t be enough.

“I should go find Jessalyn,” she said, twisting the doorknob. “She’s going to get worried if I don’t.”

“Okay.”

“Are you all right?”

 _Yes._ I’m fine, I’m really fucking fantastic, withering away like stones at the bottom of the ocean. _Yes_. I’m fine with how things ended, I’m better off alone anyway, I’m a piece of shit bastard who can’t do anything right with his life besides go to prison and cause hell for the rest of my family.

 _No._ I’m not all right. I’m coming apart at the seams, losing focus, finding it hard to wake up in the morning. _No_. I’m not fucking okay, Savannah. I’ve got a family who wishes me dead and a house that haunts my dreams. I’ve got secrets that have their own secrets, I have horrors you wouldn’t understand.

“Fine.”

And that was that. She swung open the door and disappeared into the desolate hallway, climbing up the old staircase that used to be his friend, slipping around the corner to find Jessalyn. Savannah left him at the door, his toes reaching the doorway, unable to go after her, just like before. Savannah Woodham, with her long legs and curves like the ocean and big, stubborn eyes. She was there and then she was gone.

 

**Author's Note:**

> just a little drabble i made for a friend on tumblr who begged me to write this forever ago (and i'm awful and just not posting it). working hard at my third person, and i'm pleasantly surprised at my progress!


End file.
